CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_The Living Dead_

Making no more noise than a couple of cats walking across a velvet rug, Dawson and Freddy Farmer slipped down the narrow alley to the rear of Number One Fifty-Six Kholerstrasse. There at the rear door they paused for a moment, holding their breath and straining their ears for the slightest sound inside or outside the house. There was not one single sound to be heard, however. All of Duisburg seemed truly a city of the dead. No sound, no light, no anything.

"Eerie spot, isn't it?" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Gives a chap the creeps."

"Anybody can have my share," Dawson grunted. "Okay, let's go inside."

Young Farmer nodded in the darkness, eased open the rear door, and slipped inside without making a sound. Dawson went in right at his heels, pulled the door shut, and for a moment both youths stood there motionless in the dark. Presently Dawson pressed the button of his flashlight and sent the beam roaming about a rear entry hallway. Dust and dirt seemed to be everywhere, and there was a smell in the air that made Dawson think instantly of Death.

He started to mention it to Freddy when suddenly the beam of his flashlight came to rest on some brownish red smears on the plaster wall to his right. He caught his breath in a sharp gasp, and Freddy Farmer echoed the sound. For a long moment neither spoke, their eyes held by those reddish brown smears as though by a powerful magnet.

"Bloodstains!" Freddy finally whispered. "Some chap came in here badly hurt, and he braced his hand against that wall to hold himself up."

"Yeah!" Dawson said, and swallowed hard. Then, as he lowered the beam of his light, "Look, Freddy! More stains on the floor. Boy! Somebody was hurt bad. He spilled blood all over the place. Oh my gosh, Freddy! Do you suppose--?"

Dawson didn't finish. The rest seemed to stick in his throat as he looked at Freddy. Young Farmer's face was tight and drawn, and the look in his eyes was proof that he had the same thought. That the man who had made those blood smears was one Heinrich Weiden. Why they both thought that, neither youth bothered to question. They just _knew_ it, and that was that!

"Let's get--" Dawson began, and then cut himself off short as both he and Freddy went rigid.

They did so for the simple reason that from out in front they heard the protesting scream of rubber on the pavement as a car was braked to a violent halt. And almost before the sound had been lost to the echo there came the sounds of heavy booted feet pounding up the front steps. And almost no time after that the front door shook and then crashed open under the impact of somebody hurling his full weight against it.

Split seconds before that door crashed open Dawson and Farmer were already in action. Dawson killed his flashlight, and the two youths, without a word to each other, both darted toward a hall closet door, yanked it open and slipped inside. And not a second too soon, either. It seemed to Dawson that he had hardly pulled the door to within a quarter of an inch of being closed when the hallway they had just left was flooded with light, and a voice spoke hoarsely in German.

"Swine dog! He will not escape us this time. See! There on the wall! Bloodstains. I knew I had wounded him. He cannot be far. We will try these rooms first. Be ready with your gun. We will not talk this time. We will simply shoot the dog!"

The voice seemed to speak almost in Dawson's face, and as he peered through the crack he saw a black-uniformed and booted figure advance upon a door directly across the hall. A second black-uniformed and booted figure was right at his heels. The man in front turned the doorknob, then shoved the door open, and jumped back a step as he played the beam of the flashlight in his hand through the door opening.

"Ah, swine dog! So there you are!"

As though from a thousand miles away Dawson heard the German snarl those words, and they hardly registered on his brain. He was looking past the two Germans and into the room beyond. There stretched out on a bed that boasted of only one dirty blanket was the figure of a man who at first glance looked stone dead. His face was like wax under the dirt and half dried blood. And his fingers that clutched the single blanket looked almost toothpick thin. But he was not dead. As the light hit him in the face he opened eyes that seemed to be sunk two inches in his head. They glowed for a brief instant in fierce defiance. And the thin lips twitched as though the man were about to speak.

At that moment, though, Dawson saw one of the Germans raise the wicked-looking Luger that he held clutched in his right hand. And Dawson didn't wait to see what would happen next. He jerked back one hand to give Freddy Farmer the signal for lightning-like action, and then he went out of that hallway closet like a shell from a naval gun. In one great leaping stride he crossed the hallway. He kicked up with his right foot and connected with the German's gun hand. The gun went spinning from lifeless fingers, but Dawson wasn't watching its flight. He brought his own gun over and down in a vicious chopping motion. The barrel practically buried itself in the German's skull, and the man folded up silent as a mouse and sank to the floor.

Spinning around and ducking down at the same time, Dawson started to rip his gun upward, but he instantly checked the movement. There wasn't any second German there to receive that gun under the chin in more or less brass knuckle style. Not a bit of it. Freddy Farmer had not been simply an interested spectator. He had "taken care" of the other German. And in very definite style, too. Dawson hadn't heard so much as a single sound, but when he looked down he saw Freddy's victim stretched out cold as an iced mackerel across the threshold!

Without a word both air aces grabbed their respective victim and hauled him inside the room, and closed the door. Then, shielding his flashlight so that the beam wouldn't strike the man on the bed in the eyes, Dawson moved over to him. A great lump was in his throat, and it was difficult for him to speak.

"Hello, Dartmouth," he said. "I'm right, aren't I?"

The deep sunken eyes stared at him; then the man moved his head from side to side.

"I do not know what you are talking about," he whispered in German.

Dawson smiled and kneeled down beside the bed. For some unknown reason he was positive now. The man in the bed was well over six feet tall, but his hair was not straw-colored. It was almost snow white. But his eyes were blue, and it was perhaps the eyes that made Dawson so certain. They were defiant as they stared at him, but in their depths there seemed to burn a tiny spark of faint hope.

"Harvard Nothing," Dawson said softly. "We're Yanks, Dartmouth. Yank Air Forces, but trying to do a job for Major Crandall, your chief. He only got word of your new address yesterday, just before we took off. It was ten days getting through to him. Look, Dartmouth, you've--"

Dawson stopped speaking as the other's eyes became aglow with a wild light of unbounded joy, and tears welled out of his eyes and trickled down through the dirt and caked blood on his face. Then his thin lips moved, and he whispered words that were like the bells of doom in Dawson's ears.

"You are too late! Too late! They cannot be stopped now. By dawn they will be in the air. I tried, but they saw me. I ran, but one of them shot me. I thought--if I could only get back here. Perhaps a little rest, and then I could try again. But I lost too much blood. I--I can't make it now. And--and it is too late--too late...."

The words trailed off into a gurgling sound in the dying man's throat. His eyes fluttered closed, and a horrible fear curled icy fingers about Dawson's heart. He turned to speak to Freddy Farmer, but the English-born air ace was not there in the room. In alarm Dawson started to his feet, but at that instant Freddy Farmer came slipping through the door.

"Freddy! What--?"

"Making sure, naturally," young Farmer cut him off, and quickly crossed over to the bed. "Slipped outside to see if there were others. We could be caught like rats in a trap in this place. But there were just these two. They've a small Army car outside. I took the ignition keys, and straightened the front door as I came back in. How's--?"

Freddy stopped and groaned as he fixed his eyes on the man in the bed.

"It's Dartmouth," Dawson said softly. "He talked for a moment, but about all he said was that we were too late. That nothing can stop them now. And that by dawn they'll be in the air. Before I could ask him what he meant, he passed out. He's dying, Freddy. Look at that neck wound. It's a miracle that he's lasted this long. He's--Wait! He's coming to again."

The last was not necessary. Freddy Farmer also saw the eyes flutter open, and the thin lips move. But no sounds came from between them. Dawson leaned close.

"You've got to hang on, Dartmouth!" he whispered fiercely. "You've got to hang on and tell us about it. Maybe we can help. Maybe we can still lick them. Why can't they be stopped? Who are they? And _what_ planes in the air by dawn? Hang on and tell us, Dartmouth! Hang on, please."

The sunken eyes stared, and the thin lips continued to move without making a sound. Dawson clenched both fists helplessly.

"If there were only something we could do for him!" he groaned. "A couple of sulfanilimide pills, or even a First Aid kit. But we haven't a darn thing. And I'm afraid it's too late, anyway. Dartmouth! Please! Hang on, fellow, hang on. You've got to tell us what it's all about."

As Dawson's pleading voice died away to the echo the very silence of Death seemed to hang in that room. Then, suddenly, sound began to come from between the dying man's thin moving lips. Both Dawson and Farmer leaned close so that they would not miss a single word.

"Fire!" the man said. "Fire bombs that destroy everything within a mile of where they strike. It is true! I--I have seen it with my own eyes. Flame throwers of the air. That's what they are like. But they are dropped like bombs. Special chemicals. Nothing can extinguish them. They must burn themselves out. But--but they explode and spread out in all directions. It is liquid fire. Nothing can stop it. Nothing can stop those devils now. Their secret weapon. That devil! That Herr Baron. He is back in Duisburg again. I know! I saw him. He cannot fool me, no matter what he does to his face. The twenty-fourth--tomorrow. Tomorrow they strike, and we will be helpless to stop them. It--it will not win them the war, no! They will never win. But our planes--our pilots--our crews. Hundreds--thousands! Three fourths of England's and America's bombers--wiped out in minutes. It will make the war go on five years longer. Dear heaven, I was so close. So close to stopping them!"

The dying man stopped speaking and his eyes became glazed. A hundred thousand questions sprang to Dawson's lips, and to Freddy Farmer's lips, too. But neither youth dared to speak them. Death was so very, very close, now. They could almost smell the Grim Reaper's clammy hand reaching out. They hardly dared breathe for fear that doing so would speed the end. They were helpless. The battle had to be fought alone by that man under the single dirty blanket. No other power on earth could help him. He would win his own fight, or he would lose, and his knowledge of the horrible doom poised to descend upon England would be sealed in his brain.

Tears of helpless agony stung Dawson's eyes, and his lips moved in fervent, silent prayer. He could feel Farmer's breath on his cheek, and he knew that Freddy was also praying with all his heart and soul.

And then, as though a curtain had been drawn aside, the glaze vanished from the dying man's eyes. They were bright and clear as they looked at Dawson and Farmer. The man drew breath deep into his lungs, and there was no longer the heart-chilling rattle of death in his throat. It was as though in his greatest moment of need he had reached out and received new strength from his Maker.

"Do not speak," he said in a clear voice that made Dawson's heart leap with joy. "Just listen to me, because I cannot last long. I know it--inside. I failed, but perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps you will succeed. You must. Listen to me! Ten miles along the Duisburg-Dortmund highway there is a little group of hills. They form a ring, and the valley in the middle is flat as a table. You cannot see it from the air because it is perfectly camouflaged. The spot has never been bombed because it is out in the country. Our bombers wouldn't give it a second look.

"But it _is_ a military objective. The most important this moment in all Germany. In that camouflaged valley there are a hundred British and American heavy bombers. Yes! British and American heavy bombers, I tell you. I have seen them. For months the Nazis have been planning this blow. They call it their secret weapon. It came out of the mad brain of the one they call Herr Baron. Who he is no one seems to know. But it is rumored that he was a famous Luftwaffe pilot shot down in the Battle of Britain. That he was horribly burned about the face. But he lived, and became the man of many faces. Some say he was a great actor before the war. I do not know. But I have seen him many times, and every time he looked different. Once I was almost able to kill him, but I failed then, too. To think, if I had only succeeded, this terrible thing might not be hanging over England, as it is."

The man stopped talking and stark terror gripped Dawson and Farmer again. But the man only paused to draw breath into his dying body. He went on speaking again, a wild light flaring up in his eyes.

"A hundred British and American heavy bombers! Some of them those that were forced down and captured before their crews could destroy them. But most have been remade from salvaged parts. Think of it! For months German factories have been repairing and making parts for British and American planes. _Our_ planes that they will fly against _us_ at dawn. They will not carry high explosive bombs, but a new liquid fire bomb. A bomb that floods liquid fire for hundreds of yards, and destroy everything that it touches. Herr Baron and his men have done their work well--the devils. They have selected our biggest fields in England. R.A.F. and Eighth Air Force fields. They know our identification signals. Heaven help us, they seem to know everything. And tomorrow at dawn they will take off. All the hundred of them. A suicide pilot and suicide crew in each bomber. They will fly to England, and give identification signals as though they really were our own planes returning. Three of them for each of the thirty-three fields selected. They will go in low, as though landing, and then dump their terrible destruction. In the matter of seconds each of the selected air fields will be flooded by the fire. The devils and their planes will perish, too. But our loss will be staggering. It will be months and maybe years before we can replace our losses. Yes, Hitler's secret weapon. A great victory to give his home front. A long, long lull in the bombing of Germany. The Nazis do not fight to win the war now. They fight for time. Time to reorganize, and rearm. If Hitler can stop the bombing of Germany, then three fourths of his Luftwaffe can be sent to the Russian Front where he needs air power so desperately. And by this hideous, devilish blow against us at dawn he can accomplish just that!"

The dying man stopped talking. He fought for breath, and his very eyes seemed to be on fire. Stunned, Dawson gaped at him in utter disbelief. The man was mad, raving mad. What he had told them was fantastic, impossible. It couldn't be true. A hundred American and British heavy bombers salvaged by the Nazis? Repaired and put in condition to fly against England? It was the craziest pipe dream that--But what about Krumpstadt saying that Farbin Factory Number Six was making metal cylinders for British and American planes? And those landing gear parts he had seen with his own eyes? Landing gear parts, being repaired, that he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., or England? Yes! What about his experience in Farbin Factory Number Six?

"It can't be!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice explode beside him. "It's mad--insane! You don't know what you're saying, old chap. Why, they couldn't! They--they wouldn't dare!"

The dying man turned his head and fixed flaming eyes on Freddy's face. His thin, almost bloodless lips drew back over his teeth, and his thin fingers clutching the blanket looked as though they would snap.

"Mad?" the man gasped hoarsely. "Insane? It's true, I tell you! With my dying breath, I swear it is true. Five of us learned the secret, but four died before they could get word to England. Only I was left alive, and I had been arrested. I was to be shot, but I escaped. Ten days ago. I tried to get word through to Major Crandall, to anybody, but only part of my message must have arrived. The address of this place. Mad? Insane? Today I learned that Herr Baron and his agents had returned. They are to celebrate the take-off at dawn. Himmler is expected to be there. Perhaps even Hitler. No word came to me from England. I watched the sky for hours, and prayed for our bombers. But none have come. I went there to that camouflaged field. Mad? Yes, I was mad. I went there to try and defeat them alone. To start a fire. To do _anything_ that would destroy what they have here. But I was discovered. It was that devil, Herr Baron. He was dressed as an American flying officer. His men fired. Hit me. I escaped and came back here. Perhaps it would not be too late. Perhaps there would be some word--some help from England. But they followed me, found me, and--"

The man choked on his own words. Tears streamed down his cheek as he raised one hand and pointed a quivering finger at Dawson and Freddy Farmer. His voice was little more than a dry cackle in his throat.

"Mad, insane? Go there--the Duisburg-Dortmund highway. See for yourselves. Give _your_ lives, but, whatever you do, _stop them_!"

The last word was almost a dry scream. Then something seemed to let go inside the man. His half raised head fell back. His eyes went glassy, and then blank. His thin lips quivered, and then they were still forever.

"Dear heaven, forgive me!" Freddy Farmer whispered brokenly. "Tell him that I do believe him. That I do!"

"And tell him that we will try, dear heaven!" Dave Dawson breathed as he brushed tears from his smarting eyes. "If his life was worth the try, then our lives are, too!"